‘The Archont,’ murmured Orpheus. ‘The Archont in person!’
Once his surprise had passed, he turned back to the Maritime Institute, determined to get in this time. But the doors were closed again.
‘This is too much!’ the little redhead exclaimed, climbing the flight of steps. ‘Who do they think they are in there, slamming the doors in our face like that! You’d think we weren’t good enough for them!’
Orpheus pounded on the heavy wooden panels with his fist. Once, twice, three times, harder and harder as the little man encouraged him to carry on.
‘The Institute is closed!’ a voice on the other side of the door replied at last.
‘When’s it going to open?’ shouted Orpheus.
‘You don’t understand!’ the voice yelled back. ‘It’s closed! Closed for good, by order of the Archont!’
It took Orpheus’s breath away. How could such a place as the Institute be closed? There was no sense in it!
‘Here!’ said the voice again. ‘Take a look. This is the edict!’
Looking down, Orpheus saw a piece of paper being slipped under the door. He picked it up. According to the terms of this forty-third edict, there was to be no more access to the Institute’s public rooms, its books were to be locked away and seals set on the cupboards, its maps and charts and navigational instruments confiscated …
‘What a bunch of cowards!’ shouted the redhead, kicking the door several times. Then he shrugged and marched off, uttering several nasty remarks about scholars, scientists and a set of incompetent idiots whom he appeared to know well.
Orpheus stood there transfixed, his fingers clutching the piece of paper. The wind ruffled the skirts of his coat and got in under them. He shivered feverishly. He felt as if his last hope of leaving Galnicia had vanished with the issuing of this edict.
11
An Ambush in the Steppes
Eastwards. Eastwards all the time.
Malva and Philomena had been walking in the direction of the rising sun for twenty-eight days. They had crossed arid plains, passed villages and fields, forded tumultuous rivers, made their way through the dark forests on the frontier of Monteplano, and now they were approaching the mountains of Gurkistan. They took turns resting on the back of the mule that the Spertan fisherfolk had given them, but every step was painful. When their feet weren’t bleeding their backs ached, their eyes streamed under the constant assault of wind and sun, and their stomachs were crying out for food. They had finished their meagre provisions long ago. While they were still in inhabited countryside they had managed to beg a little bread and soup, and had even stolen cabbages from kitchen gardens … but now they were coming to deserts where not a soul lived.
Before nightfall they would look for somewhere to shelter. If they were lucky it might be an abandoned shepherd’s hut, but more often it was a dip among some rocks, a tree with low branches, or just a ditch at the roadside. They slept there, stunned by exhaustion. The wild berries, chestnuts and mushrooms they found, and the mice they sometimes caught for dinner, were never enough to satisfy their hunger. At night they dreamed of the banquets of the luxurious days when they still lived in the Citadel.
Malva was woken by the same pain every morning: violent cramps in her right leg going all the way up to the small of her back. The first time it happened she screamed horribly, so loud that Philomena, woken with a start, almost had a heart attack.
Then she got used to her affliction. She found out how to relieve it: stretching her leg while holding on to her foot, then letting go and standing up as quickly as possible to take a few steps, limping at first, then more easily. Finally she drank several mouthfuls of a bad-tasting medicine that the fisherman’s wife had brewed her, and which she kept in a goatskin bag. At last the cramp would fade, and it was such a relief that she suddenly felt very well.
‘Time to get up, lazybones!’ she told her chambermaid. ‘The sun’s rising, and Elgolia lies ahead!’
Philomena muttered. She had sworn to accompany her mistress to the end, but by all the Divinities of the Known World, her oath was costing her dear! Some mornings, if she’d had the choice, she would have stayed where she was, lying on the ground, waiting to be eaten by a wild beast or baked by the sun. She would rather have died than set off again for the wretched country that Malva kept talking about.
‘We’ll get there,’ Malva said encouragingly, her eyes gazing eastwards.
‘Yes, well, we’re bound to get somewhere,’ grumbled Philomena. ‘Elgolia or no Elgolia, the world has to have some kind of end!’
‘Do you realise,’ said the Princess happily, ‘we’ll be the first Galnicians ever to set foot on Elgolia? No one else has ever gone so far!’
Malva was already dreaming of the pages she would fill when she wrote down all her adventures. She had lost her notebooks in the shipwreck, but her memory would be enough.
‘Help me to think of a good title,’ she said. ‘What about Journey into the Unknown? Or Two Girl Adventurers in Elgolia?’
Philomena looked sideways at her. She could only very vaguely understand her mistress’s enthusiasm. So many dangers could confront them. So many traps could open at their feet. True, they hadn’t met many people in twenty-eight days of walking: some suspicious peasants, a few vagabonds who had offered to let the girls join them, merchants who had tried to sell them jewels. Every time they had hastened to leave such company behind. But over there in those forbidding mountains, who knew what kind of men or monsters they might meet?
‘What a typical Galnician you are!’ Malva laughed, seeing Philomena’s frightened look. ‘Why do you have to see enemies everywhere? I’d rather think the Known World is full of such kind and generous people as the Spertan fisherman and his family.’ And she added mischievously, ‘Anyway, we’re so poor that we have nothing to lose!’
She put her hand to the Archont’s medallion, which she still wore around her neck, ‘to remind me of his villainy,’ she told herself.
‘This is all anyone could steal from me. But what’s a traitor’s medallion worth?’
* * *
A week later, when they reached the first snow-covered pass in the high mountain ranges of Gurkistan, they saw plumes of smoke in the distance.
‘Perhaps there’s a village there?’ Malva suggested.
She was shivering with cold, hunched on the mule, whose hooves sank into the soft snow. Her lips were tinged purple. Beside her, Philomena was struggling forward, gasping for breath. They must be on their guard, but what option did they have? They had to get over the pass before nightfall and reach the milder temperatures of the valley. As for going back, that was out of the question.
As they gradually approached the black smoke, they realised that there was no village there. Something on the ground was burning, but it wasn’t a campfire or even an ordinary bonfire. Black forms lay all around: shattered carts, barrels, gutted crates. Silent and chilled, Philomena and Malva moved on. There was an acrid smell in the icy air. When they were close to the fire they froze. Burning there before their eyes they saw …
‘A horse?’ said Malva, hesitantly.
‘No,’ moaned Philomena, feeling her stomach heave. ‘Horses. Lots of horses …’
And at that moment they emerged from all directions, like shadows coming from the Sea of the Dead. There were about twenty of them, mounted on huge animals that were half-bull, half-deer, with steaming nostrils. Seeing them, Malva and Philomena turned pale and clung to one another.
In spite of the cold, the mounted men wore plain tunics open wide to show their hairy chests. Their faces were hidden by black hoods that made them look like ghosts. What terrified Malva most, however, was the sight of the necklaces hanging around their throats: leather thongs with rows of human teeth strung on them.
Philomena suddenly fell on her knees in the snow. She wept and sobbed, begging these spectral warriors not to kill them. They did not react, but their circle was perceptibly closing in on the two travellers.
Malva dismounted the mule. Her legs and arms and the muscles of her face were numb with cold. She joined Philomena on the ground and began weeping too.
This is the end, she thought with infinite sadness. We shall die here and never see Elgolia.
She felt warm, moist breath on the back of her neck. Looking up, she saw that one of those monstrous beasts was snuffling at it. Its slimy nostrils were touching her skin! Without stopping to think, Malva tapped its flat muzzle smartly.
‘Go away!’ she shouted.
The animal gave a low growl and rapidly straightened up, almost throwing its rider. Then sudden panic overcame the whole troop. The masked warriors uttered cries as they brandished metal weapons in their hands: crescent-shaped axes with shining blades.
At first Malva thought her gesture had aroused the warriors’ wrath, but suddenly she saw an army of men on horseback making straight for them. They would distract the warriors’ attention. This was their chance! She tugged Philomena’s sleeve hard.
‘Come on!’
They ran, stumbled, then crawled through the snow to take shelter behind an overturned cart. From this vantage point, they watched the fight between the hooded warriors and the army of horsemen. The latter greatly outnumbered their opponents. They fought valiantly with swords and whips, and seemed to be obeying the orders of a single leader, a strong young man wearing a fur cap and standing erect on his horse’s back. Arms raised above his head, he was commanding his troops with astonishing elegance of movement.
‘My goodness,’ Philomena murmured. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so agile!’
Watching this exceptionally skilful horseman, she almost forgot her fears. It was as if pure beauty had visited the battlefield: swords clashed, the crescent-shaped axes shone, whips cracked, and the hooves of the animals pounded the snow, as if it were some kind of extraordinary ballet. Malva did not seem moved by the spectacle. She couldn’t take her eyes off the strings of teeth hanging around the necks of the hooded warriors, and the sight chilled her to the bone.
Soon, however, the warriors began to falter. Some were wounded, others disarmed, and they turned to flee westwards, uttering furious cries and digging their heels into the bellies of their bull-deer mounts.
When they were far enough away and silence fell over the mountains again, the leader of the horsemen jumped down and knelt beside the fire. He threw handfuls of snow on the blackened skeletons, reciting incomprehensible words. His guttural voice rose from the depths of his throat, and he swayed back and forth as he took in the terrible sight of the charred horses. The other horsemen remained motionless around him, their eyes fixed on the scene, while the plumes of black smoke dispersed in the sky.
At last the man straightened up, and walked towards the cart with a supple step. When he saw the two girls huddled in it, shivering, he bowed to them and threw his whip on the snow as a sign of peace.
Without realising it, Malva and Philomena had just been rescued by the Baighur people, and the man now smiling at them was none other than Uzmir, their Supreme Khansha.
A new life now began for Malva and Philomena. Uzmir had taken them under his protection, and they only had to follow the movement of the tribe, always going eastwards.
The Baighurs were nomads and hunters. They had moved over the Azizian Steppes in their long caravans since time immemorial, following the rhythm of the seasons and the oryak migrations, eating their meat and using what was left to barter with merchants. The animals’ skins, bones and long hair were all transformed by the clever hands of the Baighur women. They made harpoons, rugs, cords, oil and lucky amulets which were in great demand among the people of distant cities. In exchange for all this, the Baighurs got horses. Their horses were their only real wealth. Without horses they could not track down the oryaks. Without horses they could not move the carts carrying their children and old people. Without horses, the Baighurs had no hope of surviving in these vast and icy steppes.
Malva and Philomena gradually came to understand all this, and now they knew why Uzmir had seemed so sad as he gazed at the fire consuming the dead horses on the day when they first met. And they realised, too, that the only enemies of the Baighurs were those warriors in black hoods who had attacked them: the Amoyeds.
The name alone sent shivers down Malva’s back. And the further east the caravan moved, the more grateful she was to the Divinities of the Known World for sending Uzmir to cross her path. But for him, the Amoyeds wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her, pull out her teeth and add them to the other trophies hanging round their necks.
Days and weeks passed by.
Malva’s fears were calmed as the caravan went across the steppes. Uzmir had given her and Philomena jackets and boots of oryak skin so that they could bear the extreme temperatures. The Princess’s hair had grown again, and she wound a length of woollen cloth around her head like a turban to protect and hide it. She rode through the wind and the silent steppes all day, buoyed up by her growing hope of reaching Elgolia soon. Philomena had stopped complaining. She seemed to have been won over by the kindness and hospitality of the Baighurs.
In the evenings, exhausted, Malva would join the women to help prepare a meal and to plait cords of oryak hair. The Baighur women taught her to chew paghul, strange seeds which seemed to have many virtues, including strengthening the teeth and making it easier to digest oryak meat, but the paghul had no flavour of its own.
‘What about cramp?’ Malva asked her companions. ‘Are the seeds any good for cramp?’
Of course no one understood her question, and the women just smiled and nodded. So Malva helped herself to a few more paghul seeds, thinking that they could hardly do any harm.
As they worked some of the women smoked the chibuk, a kind of long-stemmed pipe, but they did not offer Malva one. They indicated that she was too young; according to their traditions, she must wait to be married before she could own a chibuk. Malva smiled, and tried to explain that in her own country her parents had wanted to marry her off in spite of her youth. The women opened their eyes wide with surprise: they evidently thought the Galnicians must be real barbarians.
Philomena did not join in these working parties; she refused to chew paghul, and kept finding excuses to be somewhere else. Malva watched her surreptitiously, and saw that she was always going about with the men, with Uzmir beside her.
‘He’s teaching me his language,’ Philomena explained, rejoining Malva.
‘Yes, of course!’
‘It’s true!’ said the chambermaid, taking offence. ‘I’m learning fast and Uzmir is very pleased with me, if you really want to know.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a moment,’ replied Malva with a mischievous smile. ‘A heart in love learns easily!’
Philomena shrugged, but Malva knew she had guessed correctly. Her chambermaid had fallen for the charms of the Supreme Khansha the moment she set eyes on him standing on horseback, leading his men into battle against the Amoyeds.
‘I’ve heard something very interesting,’ Philomena said one evening, creating a diversion. ‘About Elgolia.’
Malva stopped plaiting cords. ‘Did Uzmir talk to you about Elgolia?’
‘I mentioned it to him myself: I said we were going there. According to him, it may really exist, but it’s far beyond the horizon. Certain travellers have described it, but no Baighur has ever been so far.’
‘I was sure of it!’ cried the delighted Princess. ‘How many days will it take us to get there?’
‘Who knows?’ sighed Philomena. ‘For now we’re going the right way and we’re in good company. Don’t be so impatient.’
Malva nodded, guessing how difficult it would be for Philomena to leave her handsome horseman when the time came.
‘Uzmir told me about the Amoyeds too,’ Philomena went on, in a lower voice. ‘If I understood him correctly, those brutes carry out commissions for people who will pay them. They steal and loot, and they often abduct women and children to be sold to some Emperor whose
name I’ve forgotten. They kill the Baighurs’ horses to weaken the tribe, but Uzmir opposes them bravely.’
‘Uzmir is a great chief,’ admitted Malva.
‘He’s the Supreme Khansha,’ said Philomena, admiration evident in her voice. ‘And he’s even promised to teach me to ride standing on horseback!’
Malva laughed. ‘Well, while you’re waiting for a chance to break your bones, you might lend me a hand plaiting these cords!’
One morning, when Philomena was still asleep and Malva was walking round in their tent to soothe the cramp in her leg, Uzmir came in. Malva looked at him in astonishment. Until now the Khansha had been the soul of courtesy, and she knew he would never have intruded on their privacy except for some urgent reason. There was indeed an expression of deep anxiety on his face.
‘What is it?’ asked Malva, still pacing around the tent to make sure the cramp didn’t come back.
With a nod of the head Uzmir indicated Philomena, snuggled into her blankets. He needed an interpreter.
Malva shook her companion, who woke with a start and blushed when she saw Uzmir standing there. They exchanged a few words in that guttural language which Malva didn’t understand at all, and Philomena turned very pale. When Uzmir had left, she leaped out of her blankets.
‘Quick!’ she cried. ‘Pack up your things! We’re striking camp! Some of the horses were stolen overnight.’
Malva felt her heart beat faster. She hastily put on her turban.
‘The thieves left tracks,’ Philomena went on, her breath coming short.
Malva bit her lip. ‘Tracks of what?’ she asked in an expressionless voice.
‘Hoof-prints of enlils, those bull-deer animals. The caravan is leaving at once. We’re going to turn back westwards.’
The Princess and the Captain Page 8
